


‘Tis The Season

by CurufinweAtarinke



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Seasonal, Slap slap kiss kiss, Tsunderes, curvo is a good dad and tyelpe loves him, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 09:35:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurufinweAtarinke/pseuds/CurufinweAtarinke
Summary: Curufin’s halls are gonna get decked(Turgon puts up with Curufin during Turuhalmë)





	‘Tis The Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quinngrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinngrey/gifts).



> Done for a prompt requesting Curufin/Turgon, competition and something holiday related
> 
> Please forgive any non-canonness on how Turuhalmë is celebrated, i just wanted to use it

Winter is something Turukáno thinks he will never tire of. Tirion is just far enough away from the Trees for the seasons to change at least a little, and the chill that comes in as midwinter approaches is always a balm to him. He does far better in cooler climates than in the warm, however Elenwë enjoys hotter weather similar to that in her home city, so Tirion is a compromise. It does not snow in Tirion, but further north, in Formenos, there is sometimes at least a dusting of it.

Itarillë loves winter too. She dislikes being made to wear shoes to keep warm, but she adores Turuhalmë especially. The festival involves a great deal of dancing and singing, as well as the traditional log collecting. It is a holdover from Cuivienen and the Great Journey, where night was endless and winter was bitterly cold, so everyone needed to do their part in collecting fuel for the fires.

It’s always a lot of fun. Children bring in little sticks, and are met with great amounts of praise, while adults often compete to see who can bring in the largest log. All are piled together in the spacious market square, cleared of stalls, and set alight to make an enormous bonfire.

However, this year there is a complication.

Turukáno is always glad for Itarillë’s friendship with Tyelperinquar, he is. But, this year the pair have decided that they want to gather wood _together._ Meaning that Turukáno has to supervise, alongside _Curufinwë._

It’s not that he hates Curufinwë. That’s not a good way to describe it. There is, of course, a vicious, soul-deep loathing that takes hold, but it’s not just that. He has a strange amount of respect for Curufinwë. He’d prefer Curufinwë’s up-front nastiness any day to Maitimo and Macalaurë’s false niceties. He finds Curufinwë to be an inexhaustible challenge, a rival more than anything else, and the part of Turukáno that loves competition always looks forward to their next round.

But he’d been looking forward to having a relaxing Turuhalmë with his family, and Curufinwë is the opposite of relaxed.

On their way to the forest, they pass Aracáno and Irissë.

“Hey Turukáno!” cries Irissë. She is cheerfully pulling an enormous log, Aracáno draped across the top of it.

“Shouldn’t you be helping, Uncle?” asks Itarillë, sternly. Irissë makes a cooing noise at her frowning little face, and Turukáno is hard pressed not to make a noise of his own. Itarillë is _adorable._

Aracáno sits up on top of the log. He’s wearing a hat that is too big for his head, and a brightly coloured scarf.

“Irissë said I was hindering more than helping because I kept tripping over my own feet.”

Turukáno winces in sympathy. Aracáno is still in the gangly, half-grown phase of someone who is going to be very tall. Turukáno remembers his growth phase with great embarrassment, and would not wish it on anyone.

“Yeah, besides I can pull him _and_ the log,” says Irissë. Seemingly unbothered by the cold, she isn’t even wearing a cloak. Turukáno believes her, having been lifted on more than one occasion as proof of Irissë’s strength.

Itarillë grins. “You’re so strong, Auntie!”

Irissë smiles at her, then looks at Turukáno. “Elenwë not with you?”

“She wanted to spend some time with Grandmother,” replies Turukáno. “The Vanyar have different Turuhalmë traditions, and she’ll be at the bonfire later! But for now, it’s just us.”

Irissë nods, a knowing look in her eyes. “Say hello to Curufinwë for me then,” she says, and before Turukáno can respond she’s off once more, singing badly at the top of her voice, Aracáno joining in in discordant harmony.

They find Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar near the edge of the forest, amongst several other milling groups of elves. Mercifully none of the other Fëanorians are around, and Turukáno is grateful for that. Curufinwë he can deal with alone, but adding Tyelkormo or Carnistir is a recipe for disaster.

Curufinwë is tapping his foot impatiently. “Well?” he demands the moment Turukáno draws near. “We have been here almost an hour!” Crouched next to him is Tyelperinquar who appears to be inspecting the hardened dirt beneath their feet.

Before Turukáno can say anything, Itarillë pipes up from next to him. “It’s my fault! Daddy made me wear shoes.”

Curufinwë’s disposition immediately clears up. “Oh, well that’s alright then, Itarillë.” He pats Tyelperinquar on the back. “Come on, Tyelpë.”

Tyelperinquar looks up. “Oh hi Itarillë! And Cousin Turukáno! Sorry, I was looking for worms. Uncle Turco says they sometimes come out even at this time of year and I wanted to keep one as a pet!”

Next to him, his father quietly looks to the heavens and sighs. Turukáno hates how much he understands that sigh. Small children and pets... Itarillë has collected so many caterpillars. She loves the fuzzy ones that appear in spring and summer, and is always rather disappointed when they become butterflies and moths because she thinks caterpillars are cuter.

“No doubt you will find a whole wealth of strange insects when picking up sticks,” says Turukáno. “Shall we get moving?”

Curufinwë glances at him, and Turukáno just knows that he’s annoyed because Turukáno took the lead. Control freak.

They venture further into the forest, the children running ahead.

“Don’t go too far, Tyelpë!” says Curufinwë, a rare note of concern in his voice. Despite his many, many faults, Turukáno must admit that one area he cannot consider Curufinwë deficient is in his love for his son.

“I won’t!” Tyelpë cries over his shoulder and he and Itarillë disappear into the underbrush to look for good sticks.

Curufinwë perches on a fallen tree, while Turukáno leans against a large poplar opposite him. He looks up and absently notes an abundance of mistletoe infesting the boughs above him.

Tyelpë and Itarillë return with an abundance of sticks, dropping a pile at each father’s feet, before racing off again to find more. Curufinwë looks down and grins.

“Tyelpë’s pile is bigger,” he says.

Turukáno bristles automatically. “No it isn’t!” he says, like a child. Curufinwë always manages to provoke this from him.

Curufinwë is still grinning. Turukáno hates his smile. It lights up his whole face. It has _dimples!_ It shouldn’t be allowed, for such a terrible person to have such a lovely smile.

“Shall we have a little contest, then?” Curufinwë asks. “Whichever pair of us manages to gather the most will win.”

Curufinwë is still smiling, and nothing good has ever come from a happy Curufinwë, but Turukáno’s competitive nature ignites despite knowing this. “What does the winner get?” he asks.

Curufinwë tilts his head. “The winner gets to _win_ of course,” he replies, in a tone that says he finds Turukáno very dim.

“Fine,” Turukáno says. “Let’s go.”

Scrambling through the forest in a mad dash for wood is not how Turukáno thought his day would go, but he finds competing against Curufinwë to be exhilarating as always. He returns periodically, arms full of branches, to drop onto the ever enlarging pile.

After a while, the pair of them are panting, looking at two enormous mountains of sticks. Itarillë and Tyelpë have returned too, and are staring at what their fathers have collected.

“Wow, Daddy!” cries Itarillë. “We’ll never carry all these back!”

“Should we finish now?” asks Tyelpë. “We found a big log with lots of bugs, so can we go look at it before going back?”

Curufinwë is staring at him, Turukáno realises. “Yes,” he says, swallowing. “But only for a little while.”

The two children run off again, shouting happily. Turukáno turns to look at Curufinwë, who is still staring at him.

“Well,” Curufinwë says, “it would appear that I have won.”

“What?” Turukáno exclaims. “No you haven’t!”

“It’s a wonder your buildings are not even more of an eyesore, if you have such poor size judgment without the aid of a measuring device,” Curufinwë says nastily. “Clearly my pile is the larger.”

“It just looks that way because you’re so much shorter than I am,” replies Turukáno, irritated.

Curufinwë’s grin has dropped now. He’s sensitive about his height, Turukáno knows. “How like a Nolofinwëan,” Curufinwë says, eyes narrowing. “Second best, yet so desperate to pretend he is not that he will usurp and grasp at what is not his to take!”

Turukáno sees red, and before he realises what he is doing, slams Curufinwë against a tree trunk. Curufinwë is strong, but he does not resist, and stares up at Turukáno in challenge.

Victory is a good look on Curufinwë, Turukáno has to admit. He’s smirking up at him, and the light in his eyes is bright. Turukáno cannot help himself, and dips to kiss him.

There are no fireworks. Curufinwë does not taste of anything particularly special. It is a hard kiss, and they are both panting when they break apart. It’s still one of the best kisses Turukáno has ever had.

For once, Curufinwë’s face is neither smiling nor scowling. It’s a different expression, something Turukáno can’t quite put his finger on. He doesn’t have much time to ponder as Curufin’s arms are now around the back of his neck and pulling him back into another bruising kiss.

It’s nothing like being with Elenwë, who is soft and gentle. There is no romance here, just a final release of what tension has built up over the years between them. Curufinwë’s short nails bite into the skin of his neck, and his hands are like iron.

They part once more, breathing heavily, then Curufinwë is shoving Turukáno away.

“Tyelpë and Itarillë will return soon,” he says, pulling bark from his hair. “I think we’re both in agreement now about my victory.”

Turukáno is left speechless as Curufinwë walks past him to pick up an armful of branches, calling for Tyelpë.

“I-“

Curufinwë turns back to him, smiling once more. “If this is what it takes to quiet you, I may have to try this tactic again in future.”

Turukáno finds himself looking forward to it.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, check out my tumblr at curufins-smile.tumblr.com


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